Sixteen Years of Patience
by Looly
Summary: Quil x Claire I was made for you. I am yours, regardless of whether or not you are mine, and I will always be yours. I will always be what you need me to be… be it a brother, or a friend, or a lover, or nothing at all. Chronological drabbles. Complete.
1. Age Two

**Disclaimer:** Everything you recognize is not mine.

**Author's Note:** I have just finished the third book of the _Twilight _series, _Eclipse_. I liked it. A lot. However, the whole Quil printing on Claire thing kind of made me squirm at first... before I realized its potential to be ridiculously awesome and adorable. So, here this is, a series of drabbles dedicated to Quil and Claire and their relationship as she grows older.

**Sixteen Years of Patience**

by: Looly

_"After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her."  
_-Mark Twain's _Extract from Adam's Diary_

* * *

The child carefully maneuvers her way across the floor. She is slightly unsteady, her tiny hands grasping at anything around her to keep perfect balance. Tiny giggles that his ears receive as a musical masterpiece escape her lips. Large brown eyes rise from the floor and peer into his, innocent but happy. 

A mistake; she falls and scrapes her knees. Soon, the laughter is long gone and replaced by wails of pain. It's funny, he thinks to himself, the connection that they share. Her pain is his. Her sobs send stabs of hurt throughout his body, and wrecks him with grief. In not a moment he is at her side, pulling her into his arms and cradling her close.

Slowly, the sobs settle into hiccups, and the hiccups into steady breathing, and the steady breathing into soft snores. A small smile settles upon her face, and he smiles, too.

This is love.

* * *

_Here we go!_


	2. Age Six

**Disclaimer: **Nada.

**Author's Note:** Yes, they are short. -Bashful smile goes here.- But alas, they are drabbles, so they'll never be very long, I'm afraid. Someday I may write a longer one-shot (because I'll never write a full-fledged multi-chapter fic). And these are really just small moments between Quil and Claire as Claire grows up, so... Yeah. Heh, I lack the ability to make coherent sentences after a single day back at school. My apologies to those who weren't so fond of the first chapter--I do hope you'll like this better as it goes along, though I can't promise much lengthier drabbles.

* * *

He is always at her side, forever and always a part of her life. Even as she grows she never questions his presence; he is so constant that she simply accepts it. Life without him wouldn't quite be life at all. 

"I'm never fast enough for the ice cream man," she says one day, a note of disappointment in her voice. "I always hear the music too late and then I can't catch up with him."

Of course, she is a child, and her mind is quickly distracted by other sources of entertainment. But _he_ freezes, and for a moment feels anger. What she wants, she gets, and it is his personal duty to make sure of that.

The next day (and every day after that, for that matter), she has her ice cream, and the ice cream man _always_ stops in front of her house.

* * *

_...Just because I really __wish I had someone to do this for me when I was a kid._


	3. Age Eight

**Disclaimer:** Oh, stop being silly, I could never write anything as good as _Twilight_, _New Moon_, or _Eclipse_.

* * *

"It's Valentine's Day!" 

"Oh?"

"Yeah! And guess what?"

"What?"

"When I woke up this morning, there was this huge box of candy with a card on it beside my bed!" She is glowing, pleased with herself. "_I_ have a secret valentine!"

"Oh?" he says again, forcing a frown. "I have some competition, do I?"

Shocked, the girl shakes her head and runs to wrap her arms around him before saying, "No, never! You'll always be number one, you know that, silly!"

As she skips off to inform the rest of the world of her secret admirer, he allows himself a self-satisfied smirk before slouching off to buy some roses.

* * *

_...Oh. Hey, fanfiction. What's up? Oh, really? Yeah, yeah, I totally know what you mean. Oh, me? Y'know, the usual. The kids are doing great, but-- -Coughhackwheezedeath.- Ahem. Sorry for the delay, I just finished four projects for school, as well as presenting each of them, so... Yeah, my stress levels are slowly going down and my time is going up, so here we are with another drabble... ficlet... whatever the name for these ridiculously short segments should be._ _I don't like this one, it sounds too short to me, but after a few attempts at fiddling with it I couldn't make it any longer or nicer, so this is it, folks. I promise to try and update more often in the future. (...What? I mean it this time.) _


	4. Age Ten

**Disclaimer:** Quil and Claire belong to Stephanie Myer.

* * *

This was a question he was expecting to pop up one day. After all, how many people didn't age at all, especially after eight years?

"Isn't it obvious, kiddo?" he asks, a smile playing on his lips.

She flushes, wondering if there's something she's missed, and if it _was_ an idiotic question to ask after all. A quick shake of the head is her reply.

"I'm waiting for you to catch up, of course."

It isn't really a satisfactory answer, because she's old enough to know when people are evading a subject, and certainly too old to believe in the silly thing that he is suggesting. But when he leaves her (after giving her an affectionate poke on the nose and pat on the head), she remains seated in the same spot, wearing a thoughtful expression.

One day, he thinks to himself, she will remember this conversation and smile upon realizing that he had told the truth.

* * *

_Yo. I had forgotten about this story for a while, but since I have the whole thing completed, I figured I'd try and update the rest of it. So, expect some more updates to this relatively soon. Sorry for the hiatus--my life is unexpectedly hectic. But I really want to finish this and post the rest of the chapters--if you can call random, ridiculously short drabbles "chapters". I think the last few of them get much more interesting, though, so I'm all excited to get those out. Once again: I'm sorry for disappearing, but now that I've more time, I'll try to be better!_


	5. Age Thirteen

**Disclaimer:** Let's not be ridiculous here.

* * *

"_Please_?"

She's desperate. He can tell because, as close as they may be, he has a feeling that even she would never come to him with a situation like this otherwise.

"Why me?"

Secretly, he kind of hopes she'll realize that he isn't her last option and turn tail. His wolf instinct may drive his love for her, but it's his human male instinct that (every now and then) keeps him in check (and causes him to recoil from favors such as the one currently asked of him).

Why not one of her parents? After all, it's usually the mother's duty to deal with such things. Or heck, even Emily for that matter?

Anyone but him, surely.

She bites her lip and scrunches up her nose. "You know how mom is. She'll make a big deal and probably throw a party or something. And… I don't know, you just seemed like the best person to come to, I guess."

He hesitates. Damn, he hates this kind of junk. What happened to the good old days, when all she ever asked of him was ice cream and toys?

"Please?"

Half an hour later he's at the store, tossing various brands of pads and tampons into a carriage (how many different types of one thing did a person _need?_)—by himself, no less—all the while wondering if she has any idea how much of a hold she has on him.

* * *

_See? Seeee? I'm still here. Don't scoff at me! Mkay, secretly, I'm just all eager to get to the chapters that I like the best, even though I hate speed updating. Anyway, here y'go. Reviews are always loved.  
_


	6. Age Fourteen

**Disclaimer:** Everything you recognize belongs to Stephanie Meyer. So, I guess that means Tom belongs to me...?

* * *

"This is Tom."

She's smiling and her fingers are laced through _Tom's_ and the animal inside of him is clawing at the walls of his mind, begging for release and just enough blood to scare off the fool who dares touch his (_their_) girl.

But this does not happen.

"Nice to meet you," he says, diligent of his manners as always. But he does not hesitate to show more teeth than necessary when he smiles, or to squeeze _Tom's_ hand a bit _too _hard for comfort.

She leaves the room momentarily, promising to return with drinks, and _Tom_ stands in uncomfortable silence. He, however, basks in it.

"S-so…" _Tom_ begins, rubbing the back of his neck and bouncing on the heels of his feet. "…What are you to her, exactly?"

"Y'know," he says, popping his shoulders before shoving his hands into his pockets. His shoulders are slumped and his stance is a lazy one, but the height difference between the two of them is still enough to intimidate _Tom_.

"Whatever she wants me to be."

He is all business as he says this, no tinge of laughter in his voice to suggest a joke. When he looks at _Tom_ again, it is with an odd mixture of hatred, sadness, and pleading.

_If you have no intention of being that as well, then please leave._

_Tom_ doesn't last very long.

* * *

_Poor ol' Quil. Yet another update--I said __I'd be better about this, didn't I? Remembe: reviews are always appreciate and loved!  
_


	7. Age Fifteen

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine, at all, in any way, shape or form.

* * *

"You're…"

He winces and turns away, letting out a low whimper. She was not supposed to see him like this—ever, he had hoped. In this form, he was a beast, with nothing but his emotion to control him. Flashes of Sam and Emily fly through his thoughts, and he finds himself yearning to run. What if he hurts her?

"You're…"

A beast. A monster. Ugly. Frightening. Certainly not the boy she knew and loved.

"…beautiful," she whispers, stepping forward and brushing her fingers through his fur.

Oh.

* * *

_Short update today, and, my apologies, but the next week will be full of nothing, since I'm off to Las Vegas with my family. I'll get back to posting once I'm home again. Remember to leave a review!  
_


	8. Age Sixteen

**Disclaimer:** Nope, they're not mine.

* * *

It's funny. He's waited so long, so patiently, so fearfully—and yet, here it is, the very thing he's awaited so anxiously. The thing he has pursued for so many years without any promise of fulfillment, and here it is.

And he didn't even notice it. Not for a while, at least.

He finally gets the point when they're sitting on Billy's couch, watching some Discovery channel show about wolves (she had stopped channel surfing there and shot him a wry grin). It is just the two of them, sitting in a peaceful silence, laughing every now and then.

Things turn awkward, however, when the show begins to discuss the mating habits of wolves.

His eyes glance over at her form with an arched eyebrow, and he finds that she is sitting perfectly rigid, hands clenched into tight fists at either side of her, and the blood rushing to her face with astonishing speed. He doesn't mind, though, because she looks cute when she's embarrassed.

"…Change the channel, I think…" she murmurs, grasping for the clicker. In her eagerness, she knocks the remote across the floor, and the next moment she's flustered and blushing and apologizing and leaping towards the television across the room out of desperation for a different show.

It is when she turns from the television looking relieved (they are now watching some evangelistic program), yet purple in the face and unable to meet his eyes, that everything suddenly clicks.

And the first thing he does is howl with laughter.

* * *

_Back from Las Vegas, exhausted from the horrific flight home and three hour time difference, and sunburned everywhere. That'll teach me not to use sunscreen. P.S.: if you ever have the chance to see Cirque de Soleil's show "Ka", do it. It was incredible.  
_


	9. Age Seventeen

**Disclaimer:** We've been through this already...

* * *

"Do you love me?"

It is an innocent question. She asks it thoughtlessly, perhaps even meaning it as a joke, unaware of its severity.

"With all of my being."

The answer startles her, and she turns to look at him. For a moment he can see something akin to confusion in her eyes. _Perhaps this is it_, he thinks.

But then she laughs, and her laughter is the same music that it was fifteen years ago.

"You can be so random sometimes," she says with a grin, knocking shoulders with him.

He watches her leave, and finds himself reaching for her far too late.

* * *

_It was short. But only because there's only one more chapter left._


	10. Age Eighteen

**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Stephanie Meyer.

**Author's Note:** This is the final chapter. It's been nice writing about these two. (Allow me to add my frustration at deciding to follow the trend I started in the earlier chapters by continuing to _not using their names_. That was a bad idea, especially when I had to write about people other than the two of them. I need to stop doing that.) Maybe someday I'll do something more in-depth, if a good idea comes upon me, but I'm by no means making any promises--good ideas are few and far between for me, to be honest. We'll see. Until then, enjoy this product of my inability to write anything plot-driven.

* * *

"So that's it, then?"

She is crying, and her voice is thick with emotion—anger and sadness and so many other things. He is patient and calm, though he cannot deny the pain that is creeping into his heart. As much as it kills him to tell her, she must know. He could not bear keeping her in the dark.

"You _have_ to love me? You have no choice. None at all! What kind of a relationship would that _be_?"

"I was made for you," he whispers.

"Stop that."

"I am yours, regardless of whether or not you are mine, and I will always be yours. I will always be what you need me to be…"

"Stop it, Quil!"

"…be it a brother, or a friend, or a lover, or nothing at all."

"_But it isn't love_!" she yells, all control lost, her frustration taking over as she shoves him.

He doesn't move an inch; he simply watches her, calm and collected as always. She hates him for that—for his accepting nature, his unwillingness to fight back. _God_, it frustrates her. He would never hit her, yell at her out of anger, try to hurt her just for the sake of hurting. It's something she should be thankful for, but it isn't natural and it isn't right and it isn't fair and _God_, she will never be able to stand it.

"Not really, anyway," she adds, voice softened. "Not the type of love that everyone else experiences."

"It _is_ love. Just… different. Why should it have to be like everyone else's?"

He smiles, and it's a lopsided and silly grin, but his eyes remain locked onto hers in a way that is undeniably everything that is love.

Despite everything—how wrong it is, how unfair it is, how everything is telling her to turn heel and run and forget—she stumbles into him and wraps her arms around him, welcoming the warmth.

Because this is love; it has always been love.

And somehow, she feels that _she_ was made for _him_, too.

* * *

_It's a bit of a frustrating end, but that's it, y'all. Thanks for reading, and thanks also to those of you that have reviewed and given me constructive criticism and support. It means a lot, and always helps in shaping the way I write as well as my desire to keep it up. I hope you all enjoyed it!  
_


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